Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories

by Nancy Christie

  Not for the first time he wondered why he allowed himself to be dragged on these vacations every year. Why didn’t he just cancel the tickets or, better yet, cancel his and let her go alone? After all these years, was he just incapable of fighting the immovable force that was his wife?

  The thought was disturbing, unsettling. He needed something to distract his mind, to wipe out that mental image of himself being dragged by invisible chains along a path of her devising that led inexorably to his death.

  He checked the seat pocket, hoping for an inflight magazine but she had already captured the sole issue for their row. Not that she was reading it. No, she was engaged in her book, some trashy novel she had picked up in the terminal, licking the tips of her fingers each time she had to turn a page. As for the magazine, it was wedged between her ample right hip and the armrest. He’d have to reach across her to get to it but that would bring him far closer to her body than he wanted.

  Maybe he could sleep. He slipped off his jacket and balled it up to put between his head and the window and then, angling his body away from her, he closed his eyes. If he slept, he could at least forget for those few hours that she was next to him. Lord knows, that strategy worked for years in their marital bed.

  Breathe in, breathe out, relax, relax . . . He silently repeated the mantra, the only useful tool he was able to gain from a Discovery Channel show on relaxation—he might have learned more if she hadn’t picked that moment to run the vacuum cleaner in the living room—and slowly felt the tension in his neck subside, his heartbeat slow, his body soften. He had just reached the point of dozing off when a light pierced his closed eyelids.

  “Mine wasn’t bright enough,” she said, when he turned to look at her, “so I had to turn yours on, too,” and she smiled.

  He should have brought an eye mask to block out the light. He should have brought ear plugs, too, so he wouldn’t have had to hear her either. He should have brought an eye mask, ear plugs and some undetectable but lethal poison to drop into her food so she would go into convulsions and die before the plane could land.

  But he didn’t, and now he was forced to sit there and listen to her chatter on about the story she was reading—some stupid gothic romance that was a ludicrous choice for a woman her age, anyway.

  “We’ll start the refreshment service in a few moments.”

  The announcement was a welcome one, not because he was hungry or thirsty but because he could count on her to want to eat and drink, and while her mouth was occupied, she wouldn’t be able to talk.

  He didn’t want anything, though. The hamburger he had eaten at one of the airport’s overpriced fast food joints after checking their bags (she hadn’t cooked dinner “because, after all, we’ll be gone for a week!”) was sitting rocklike in his stomach, and even now he could feel the stomach acid eating a hole in his internal lining. It would have been all right if he had taken his antacid pills—the ones he always made sure to slip into his jacket pocket—but he didn’t. Not because he forgot but because they weren’t there. He realized that when he searched in vain for the bottle.

  “Oh, that bottle?” she had said, after watching him check both pockets. “I think I saw it fall out when you picked your jacket out of the bin at security. Yes, that is exactly what happened,” triumphantly, as though he was supposed to be pleased that she knew where he had lost the bottle. “It fell out of your pocket and I picked it up and set it off to one side and then, oh, my, I guess I forgot to pick it up. Did you need it?” A stupid question because she knew he needed it. He took a pill before each meal, and sometimes, if the day had been stressful or she had been particularly aggravating, one more at night.

  Now he wouldn’t be able to take any at all. And since the bottle was the last refill, he would have to wait until he got home and scheduled a doctor’s appointment to be able to get any more. In the meantime, the burning would go on and on and on.

  Like her voice. Like her existence.

  “Now what can I get you?”

  He turned to answer the flight attendant (the same one who had given him such a hard time before) but saw that she was speaking, not to him but to his wife, who was even now engaged in a long drawn-out process of making her selection from the paltry choices presented: peanuts or crackers, coffee or tea, juice, water or soft drinks.

  “Well, let’s see,” and she mulled over the options.

  How could she be hungry? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t eaten! She had, and quite a lot, too: the six-dollar cheeseburger and fries at Burger Boy and then, less than an hour later, even more food (a peanut butter sandwich, candy bar and the twin to the leaking banana) from the stockpile in her handbag while they waited to board.

  It was embarrassing to see her bring all that food into the airport, but what was even more disgusting was the way she ate: taking great bites from the sandwich and then turning to talk to him, her mouth still full, and bits of peanut butter caught in the corner of her mouth.

  It was disgusting and yet she did it, like all the other things she did that humiliated him when they were in public: absentmindedly picking at her teeth, blowing her nose into a handkerchief and then shoving the now snot-filled rag back into her pocket (couldn’t she use tissues instead?), pushing past people waiting in line to claim a spot further up and then turning with what he knew was a fake smile to say “I hope you don’t mind” and of course they did but what could they do but let her have her place?

  “Take your time,” the flight attendant said, and of course, she did, finally deciding on both cookies and peanuts, coffee and juice.

  “And you?” her can’t you hurry up and make a choice already tone a sharp contrast to the one she had employed with his wife.

  “Nothing” and the attendant turned to the people across the aisle with an audible sniff, as though resenting even the seconds she used to ask her question when he wasn’t planning on having anything anyway.

  “But the snacks are free!” his wife said, as though he was an imbecile who had never flown before. “Why don’t you take one? Here” and she pushed the opened bag of peanuts at him, spilling half of its contents on his lap in the process, “have a few.”

  “You know I am allergic to peanuts.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Cookie then?” and she smiled again.

  He didn’t even bother to answer but turned away, checking his watch to see how much longer this flight would last. At least two more hours before they touched down. Two more hours of being trapped next to this thing that was his wife. Two more hours of watching her and the flight attendant collude against him. Right now, he had no doubt that, if he asked for medical aid, even that wouldn’t be forthcoming. How did his wife manage to get everyone on her side? He didn’t even do anything and they were already against him.

  He rested his perspiring head against the cold window and tried to slow his breathing again while ignoring the burning in his stomach. But both efforts were unsuccessful. Two hours. One hundred twenty minutes. Or a lifetime, depending on how you looked at it.

  “Mmm,” and she nudged him sharply with her elbow. “This is so good. You really should have had something. He should have had something,” turning to the people across the aisle. “You know, my husband has stomach issues,” lowering her voice as though she were talking about some embarrassing disease “and if he goes without eating, he gets an awful burning and sometimes even diarrhea.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes,” but nothing could stop her now. She would go on, recounting every ache and pain, illness or injury he had suffered since their marriage while he sat there, red-faced and tried to pretend that he was anywhere but there.

  “Will you eat, please!” and she turned back to him, smiling.

  “Of course! Actually,” as she dumped the contents of the six sugar packets into the Styrofoam cup, “I think I want to drink the—oh, my!” and somehow the scalding hot coffee sloshed over the edge and right onto his lap, seeping through the polyester material to burn the tender fl
esh of his inner thigh.

  “Damn it” he exploded and then magically the flight attendant was there. But not to offer help—he realized that when she said “Sir! Your language, please!” without even so much as offering him a napkin to sop up the liquid. “There are children present!” as though they hadn’t heard the same words from their own parents, he thought angrily.

  Then, “Can I get you another cup?” to his wife, as though the bitch deserved one after being so careless.

  Or was it really carelessness? Sometimes, when things liked this happened—the dinner knife that she accidentally brushed off the table when setting down his plate that just missed his balls, the hot water that was set at a scalding temperature, his morning juice that (he learned later after vomiting for hours) had been sitting out in the hot sun the day before—he wondered if she wasn’t trying to kill him.

  “Let me up,” and he grabbed what was left of her snacks off her tray and tossed them onto her lap, while shoving the water and now empty coffee cup at the attendant. “Let me up” even louder, and he shoved the tray up out of the way, and then, without even waiting for her to move her legs, stepped over her, pushing the attendant out of his way as he headed down the aisle.

  He’d go to the restroom, cool the burn with some water and then—what? Could he possibly stay in that narrow cubicle until it was time for the plane to begin its descent? And would that be so bad? He would at least have a place to sit in peace and quiet.

  No, he realized. If he tried that, that damned flight attendant was bound to beat on the door and everyone would turn to watch him exit the bathroom. He needed another strategy, another way of avoiding her for at least the balance of the flight. And miracle of miracles, one presented itself just as he was heading back to his seat.

  There, just a few rows behind her, an empty aisle seat. I’ll just sit there, he thought, and suited action to idea. The passenger to his left glanced up and then quickly looked away. He’s afraid of me, he thought with satisfaction. And well he should be. No one knows what I am capable of, what I can do if I am pushed beyond my limit!

  And he had been—not just with what happened on this flight but for all those years that led up to it. He really couldn’t take any more. He just couldn’t.

  He could feel his heart begin its erratic rhythm and the sweat beading on his forehead.

  He’d had enough. One more minute of this life with her and he would explode. And now his heart was pounding and, from a distance, he could see his fingers clenching the armrest. He ought to take a nitro pill. If he didn’t, the pain would get worse and his heart would beat harder.

  But his pills were in the breast pocket of his jacket and his jacket was up there. With her.

  “Sir. This isn’t your seat. You can’t sit here” but he couldn’t look at her. Not now. He was too busy trying to breathe past the increasing tightness.

  “Sir, I am going to have to insist that you return to your seat immediately!”

  But that wasn’t going to be an option, because, even if he wanted to—and God knows he didn’t!—for some reason his leg muscles wouldn’t have obeyed his brain’s commands. And now the pain was even worse and he knew—he knew!—that even if he took a pill, it wouldn’t help. And did he want one, really?

  “Sir! You can’t sit here. It’s not your seat. Yours is a few rows up. This is the exit row.”

  Exit row.

  The pain was unbearable but he mustered just enough energy to answer “Thank God” before closing his eyes and letting the pain take him away.

  Waiting for Sara

  “Mom, it’s Sara.”

  Her voice was distorted by the miles of wire separating us—how many miles I could only guess.

  “Where are you?”

  So many of our conversations began like that, with Sara making contact, and me, desperately trying to keep that contact alive, sending out my love like a rope to bind her to me.

  “Things haven’t been goin’ too good here.” Her voice was slurred—drink or drugs, I couldn’t tell.

  “Sara.” My voice sharpened with worry. “Tell me where you are. Are you okay?”

  “Cool, Ma.” Her voice faded away, and then came back again. “So what’s happenin’?”

  “I’d love to see you, Sara. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you. Or give me your number and I’ll call you back.”

  The phone company could trace a number, I thought. I’ll tell them it’s an emergency. I’ll tell them we were cut off. We were cut off. Between my daughter and me, there was a chasm deeper than the Great Divide. And every spar I threw across fell to the bottom, the echoes endlessly crashing through my life.

  “So, look, I gotta go.” There were sounds in the background—doors slamming and voices raised in anger. “But, hey, it’s been great, y’know,” and then the line was dead.

  I didn’t want to put the receiver down, even when the buzzing was replaced by the recorded voice asking me to “please hang up now.”

  Finally, I replaced it on the cradle—gently, the way you close a door when the baby is sleeping and all you wanted to do was peek inside without awakening her.

  When Sara was a baby, I used to open and close her door a hundred times, afraid that if I missed checking her every fifteen minutes, she would die. Crib death was my big fear then, followed by child molesters and kidnappers as she grew older.

  I hated seeing those pictures on milk cartons—smiling faces snapped in their school-picture pose, with the plaintive cry “Have you seen this child?” emblazoned below. I didn’t want to be reminded of what could happen to any child—my child—despite a mother’s careful concern.

  Now, I wanted to take Sara’s high school graduation picture and send it to her, pleading, “Have you seen my daughter? Please bring her back.”

  It has been at least four years since we lived together. One cold November morning, she packed her clothes, her favorite stuffed bear, and the small stash of marijuana she thought I didn’t know about into the suitcase I had given her for her eighteenth birthday and left. Just like that. I had no warning, no way to prepare.

  Well, no, that isn’t strictly true. A blind person could have seen it coming—the logical culmination of shouted words and slammed doors, of hostile stares and muttered phrases.

  A blind person, yes, but not a mother. Past experience with a two-year-old’s tantrums was little preparation for a teenager’s rebellion or an adult child’s rejection.

  Sara’s thirteenth birthday had marked the beginning of battles between us, leaving me bewildered, hurt and angry—sometimes all at the same time.

  “But why can’t I go?” Sara’s voice was shrill, carrying through walls into the kitchen, where I was peeling potatoes for dinner. That was her job, but it seemed easier to do it myself rather than argue with her. Lately, arguments had become the only form of communication between my teenaged daughter and me.

  “You’re only in junior high. You’re too young to go to a concert. It’s dangerous. People get crazy at those things!”

  “Well, it’s stupid!” She flounced into the room, wearing a skirt that was far too short. I had told her any number of times to let the hem down, that it was verging on indecent. But she wouldn’t listen. “Everybody is going—all my friends! You just don’t want me to have any fun! I hate you!” screaming the last words as she slammed the front door behind her.

  The knife slipped on the potato skin and sliced my finger. I watched the blood well up through the tears in my eyes and tried very hard not to let her words cut my heart. All the parenting books said, “It’s a typical teenage stage. Don’t take it personally.”

  Good advice. If only I could follow it.

  She didn’t come home that night. Instead, she slept at girlfriend’s house, while I paced the floor and debated calling the police. In the end, I simply waited for her—the way I had been waiting since the day she was born.

  Overdue, yet stubbornly refusing to cooperate with nature, Sara was born by Cesarean s
ection. At the time, I thought it was my body that refused to surrender this new life without a fight. But perhaps it was Sara herself who was not ready to be born. Did she somehow know how difficult life would be? Was she trying to hold off accepting the responsibility for her own existence?

  In the recovery room, I had marveled at her body, counting fingers and toes over and over again, rejoicing in the reality of her presence. I pictured us functioning as a single unit—mother-and-daughter—sharing joys and happiness in a peaceful home.

  Not surprisingly, reality was different.

  “Mommy, I’m bored.”

  My daughter twined her six-year-old arms around my neck, pulling me away from the desk and the bills awaiting payment. There was so much to take care of: grocery shopping and house-cleaning, making meals and washing clothes. And Sara.

  Sometimes, I would wonder what I could have achieved if I hadn’t had been a single parent. Sometimes, I would envy my childless friends, who moved unencumbered through life, achieving goal after goal.

  Most of the time, I would try not to think of what might have been, and instead, would take pleasure in brushing Sara’s hair or listening to her sing to her stuffed bear. Most of the time, I would try to remember what a blessing children could be, and how many infertile women wept sterile tears.

  Most of the time, I would succeed.

  “Sara, Mommy’s working. Please go watch television.” If I had more money, I could hire a sitter, carve out some free time to get caught up. But Sara and I were barely able to exist on my secretarial income as it was, with no extra money to pay for the luxury of solitude.

  “But, Mommy, you promised we could go to the park today.” Her fingers pulled at my hair as her words pulled at my mind.

  “In a minute,” I said, adding sharply, “Now, go in another room and leave me alone!”

  Years later, I can still feel her arms slipping free of my neck.

  When Sara first moved out, I felt disoriented, like returning to a room and discovering that it’s not the same as when I left it a moment ago. Nothing anyone said—and they all tried to say something appropriate, from “She’ll come around someday” to “You did the best you could”—was of any use to me.